"Gordon," I pleaded, as my eyes filled with tears, "do you mean to say you'd whip him?"
"Yes," said Gordon, very solemn; "yes, if he needs it."
"Oh, Gordon," I cried, for it was all very real to me, "you'll make him afraid of you; he'll learn to dislike you, Gordon—and that would break my heart," the words quivering as they came.
"There, there, dear," he said, gently caressing me, "don't let us say any more about it—perhaps I won't have to whip him much. All I mean is, that I don't believe in children getting their own way; we mustn't indulge him, I mean. And you know, dear," this coming with a very winning smile, "you know, I'm older—and I've had more experience than you, dear."
"No, you haven't, Gordon," I cried triumphantly; "you shouldn't say that. I've had just as many as you, Gordon—and I know them better; I've studied him more, right here with him all the time."
But just then our solitary descendant broke out with an imperious cry that indicated he wanted something. Gordon leaped to duty. "It's his bottle," he exclaimed excitedly, beginning a wild search on the table, under the pillow, beneath the bed, the quest continued in the bathroom and an adjoining chamber. "Yes, yes, baby," he kept saying as he searched; "yes, father'll get him his 'ittle bottle; he's hungy, is he, the tootsy wootsy? Yes, father'll bing it in a minute." The much desired article was finally discovered in the cradle beside the bed; and Gordon, in full canonicals, knelt lowly on the floor as he pacified the clamorous lips.
"I thought you didn't believe in giving them their own way?" said I.
"He's too little to know the difference yet," said the bending one, his back to me as he adjusted the mechanism anew.
"Oh, Gordon," I said, "you're very young, as a father—very young."